


Sold My Soul (To the Callin')

by nerdyydragon



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Forehead Touching, Helmetless Din Djarin, Keldabe Kiss, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), Touch-Starved Din Djarin, fighting as flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyydragon/pseuds/nerdyydragon
Summary: Din's life used to be simple: bounty puck, hunt, get paid, rinse, repeat. Take care of his tribe.Then it was bounty puck, hunt, get paid, keep his kid safe. Keep his clan safe, their little clan of two. Rinse, repeat. Simple. Not easy, but simple.He never wanted the saber. He never wanted to be king of a planet he's never known. He never wanted to be face to face with Luke Skywalker, but here he is.He wishes things could go back to how they were. He wishes things could be simple again (no, he doesn't).
Relationships: Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker
Comments: 36
Kudos: 505





	Sold My Soul (To the Callin')

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Barns Courtney's "Fire"--the whole Attractions of Youth album is very star wars

_ “I can’t say I’ve seen anything like this,” and not for the first time is Din struck by the absolute wonder in the other man’s voice as he handles the blade, dark energy fluttering from the hilt as though the weapon knows who is in possession of it. He gives it a swing, the energy humming through the air as it twirls. “Amazing.” _

_ When it’s handed back to him, the bottom of Din’s stomach drops out as their fingers brush, even though he can’t actually feel the other man’s skin against his own. But he knows what he should be feeling--warmth, sunshine personified, peace, and underneath, something that he refuses to let himself identify. _

“Din.” Skywalker’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts,  _ again _ , and back into the sounds of the dense forest of Yavin-4. He can feel the stiffness that’s knotted its way into the base of his spine, the back of his neck, his knees. Kriff, he’s getting old. 

He unfolds himself carefully, the beskar of his bracers  _ tinging _ gently as he rests his forearms against his knees, stretching out his legs after sitting for such a prolonged period of time. He doesn’t know how Luke does it, frankly, sitting for so long in one position. So he’s relieved when the other man clarifies the questioning tone in his voice: “we should spar. It will do you no good, carrying a weapon you don’t know how to use.”

He chuckles as he shifts.

“You know, a wise man once told me that sabers were weapons of a more civilized age. That they were meant to be symbols of peace, not weapons.” Luke groans at his tone, drier than the sands of Tatooine, and helps him to his feet. He doesn’t need to, and they both know it, but he appreciates the effort. And if he lets his palm linger in Luke’s for a fraction longer than he probably should, neither of them say anything.

“Show me your stance again.”

This part, at least, is easy. He rolls his eyes, knowing Luke can’t see it, and falls back on his training. It isn’t really all that different than fighting with any other sort of melee weapon, single or dual handed, and the weight of the darksaber has become a comfort in his palm, even if the implications of it haunt him at night.

But then, it seems like his whole life has become a series of accepted responsibilities he thought he could go his whole life without; a future for his people, resting on his shoulders, Grogu, and now-- _ no _ .

He falls in step easily, working through the motions he had learned in youth, shifting easily into the ones Luke had taught him in their brief period of training. The blade sings in his hand, honed and lethal, even in the hands of a man who did not have mastery over it.

Din didn’t think he’d  _ ever _ have mastery of it.

He’s mid-swing when Luke’s hand comes up underneath his bicep, bringing his cut, and his mind, to an abrupt halt. He had been too focused on the moment to remember where the other man had been standing, trusting him to stay well enough out of his line of fire, and his brain grinds to a standstill when his other senses kick back in to note the weight of the other man at his back, pressed back to chest with him.

“You’re still too narrow.” Luke’s hand hasn’t left his arm, and one knee pokes between his thighs to gently nudge him into a wider stance. “Your balance is all off. If Bo-katan showed up right now, she’d have you on your back in seconds.” Din’s still trying not to think about the feeling of Luke being so close to him, and tamping down his reaction to it, that he almost misses what he says next, hardly more than a whisper. “I’d have you down in less than that.”

And  _ dank farrik _ , if his face isn’t burning.

The thing is, he knows he has a long way to go, and he knows from (rather unfortunate) experience that Skywalker is a very… hands-on teacher. Cara doubts that he’s this handsy with any of his other pupils, few of them though they may be, but he’s starting to feel like a leading lady in one of the holodramas that Greef is adamant about not watching (they all know it’s a bold-faced lie). It’s getting ridiculous. 

Luke’s other hand presses against the back of his neck, right under the catch of his helmet, and Din’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Let’s try something different today. I want you to take this off.”

“Not an option.” It isn’t even a question. He knows it shouldn’t matter, because Luke has seen his face already, albeit briefly. He knows that standing on tradition and principle now shouldn’t factor in his decision, should be of no consequence, because he’s already broken the creed once, but he isn’t about to do it again. Not without good reason.

“But does it still count as breaking your oath if I can’t see you?” Part of him hates that Luke seems to always know exactly what he’s thinking, but part of him, the larger part, is curious to see how deep this talent goes, and if it’s part of his magic powers, or if it’s just a testament to how well Luke seems to know him. It’s that larger, curious part of him that turns around, drawing himself together and taking a step back from Luke, only to be sucker-punched by the sight before him.

The slim strip of black fabric around Luke’s head, blocking his eyesight, makes his heart clench in his chest, and he can hear his blood rushing in his head (it’s doing something else, too, but he’s doing his level best to ignore it). Luke brushes the golden fringe out of his eyes, a habit rather than any real need, and he waits, a sunshine smile on his face that looks so out of place without the bright eyes that match. Din stares right back at him, and even through the layers of armour and fabric that separate them he feels almost like he’s being laid bare before the other man. It’s not an entirely uncomfortable feeling, and the tension in his chest is what prompts him to start undoing the buckles in his beskar, leaving them in a careful pile under a tree root, easily accessible should he need it. The helmet comes off last, and though he has hardly taken his eyes off of Luke, to finally look at him without the censored barrier of the visor leaves him feeling exposed.

The fighting is the easy part. No matter how many times he seems to send Luke flying, or twist him into some likely painful tangle of limbs, the fabric stays firmly planted over his eyes, almost like it had been stuck there (he suspects, rather strongly, that it has something to do with the Force he keeps hearing about). He slashes, Luke parries, and returns the favour, only for the darksaber to block the blow before Din could even think about doing it himself. It’s comfortable, like this, like he’s opened himself up in a way that he hasn’t--can’t--with anyone else, to someone who  _ understands _ .

He hasn’t had this much fun in years.

Maybe he hasn’t had this much fun  _ ever _ .

There’s an added risk in the fight, knowing that Luke could deal him serious damage without the protection of his beskar, but the thrill of it keeps him on his toes. And Luke is… a sight to behold, really. It almost feels like cheating, being able to see him in his element, at one with the power around him, when the other man has no such luxury. To watch him become a flurry of movement, blind but more sure of himself than any warrior he had ever seen. He blocks a particularly brutal slash, one that would have left him dead if he didn’t know Luke was still pulling his punches.

“You’re getting better,” and the words come out in a pant. Din tries not to feel pleased by the fact that he’s rendered the galaxy’s saviour out of breath.

It’s strange to clash with him, the glow of their sabers casting an eerie shade over Luke’s face, his once-tan skin an almost ghostly pallor, but even with the blades between them he’s close enough to count the freckles that dust his cheeks, barely there unless you knew what you were looking for.

And then the ground’s gone from under his feet, his back hitting the mossy earth with a dull  _ thud _ , his weapon skittering off somewhere under the trees. Luke lands poised above him, thighs bracketing his waist, and Din can see the bright shine of the saber he wields in his hand humming dangerously close to his throat out of the corner of his eye. He swallows thickly, bringing his hands up to rest carefully next to his head.

“I yield.” The words stick in his throat as he says them, coming out gruffer than he intends, and above him Luke blushes (it’s the exertion catching up with him, he tries to tell himself, ignoring the way Luke’s shifting is beginning to become a slow form of torture). The blade stays steady for another moment before blinking out, and he waits for Luke to release him.

Instead, the other man sets his saber on the ground gently, out of reach, and  _ reaches _ . Din’s heart is hammering in his chest, and he feels like it might beat itself into exhaustion as he waits, still like the trees around them, for Luke to reach his destination. One deft hand settles on his face, a slow, barely-there touch that sends him reeling, and gentle, calloused fingertips brush over his jaw, his cheekbones, the lines of his mouth. It’s too much, a loaded feeling to experience the sensation while he watches Luke, knows that while he can’t actually  _ see _ him he’s being  _ seen _ , somehow, and with a ragged breath he closes his eyes, letting Luke explore the cartography of his face.

There is a part of him that wants to push Luke away, to tell him that this is  _ enough _ , that their spar is over for the day and they can revisit the technique later. A part of him that wants to re-don his armour and run, maybe catch the nearest transport off this moon, disappear into the farthest reaches of the outer rim where he wouldn’t have to hear the name  _ Luke Skywalker _ ever again, if he could help it.

Then Luke’s forehead is resting against his own, breathing his air, a steady and constant pressure that he knows is light enough to be easily cast aside, and the fragility of the moment comes crashing down around him. That Luke is  _ waiting for him _ , letting him make the next move. There is too much stimulation for him to do anything else, too much foreign sensory input to risk pushing things farther than they had already gone, but it was enough. 

Slowly, carefully, he tangles one hand into the golden hair at the back of Luke’s head, holding him there, secure,  _ safe _ .  _ His _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed it! It was buzzing around in my brain since the S2 finale and I had to get it out. The potential this little ship has... *chef's kiss*
> 
> You can come say hi to me on tumblr (@nerdyydragon) and I post original poetry on my instagram (@hayleepescod) so y'all are free to check that out as well!


End file.
